


A Place We Were

by Morbidmuch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Exes to Lovers, F/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Time Loop, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbidmuch/pseuds/Morbidmuch
Summary: In which Hermione learns that some things are inevitable. Time is not one of those things.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 109
Kudos: 160
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members





	1. Open up, Enter in

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 🙌🏻 This is my latest fic baby - she has nine chapters and I'll be posting every Monday.
> 
> As always, this fic was beta read and alpha'd by the amazing turtle_wexler and q-drew (though I have tinkered with it and all mistakes are my own). They are amazing and I love them.
> 
> Onwards with the show!

Hermione thrives on order. She enjoys a clean and clear space – a messy house is a messy mind, her father used to say – and her belongings are rarely in a place where they shouldn't be. The tornado on her bed is therefore causing her a fair bit of mental distress. She starts clearing it up; dresses go on the left side of her wardrobe, skirts on the middle shelf. She fingers the skirt of a pale yellow sundress. Maybe she should wear that instead? Then she huffs, hangs the garment into the closet and tucks her hair behind her ears. It doesn't at all matter what she wears, and she's not changing again.

Crookshanks is stretched out half on top of the last dress to be put away, and when she moves his leg to pull it away he startles, raises his head and hisses at the audacity.

“I'm sorry, old man,” Hermione chuckles, reaching over and scratching his chin. His purrs vibrate through her hand, and she reluctantly gives him a final stroke before straightening up. She hangs up the dress and closes the wardrobe doors with a sigh. She's procrastinating. She should just leave. The sooner she leaves, the sooner it'll be over and she can come back home and try to forget.

She goes down the sunlit hall to the kitchen at the back of the flat, where she checks she's not running out of milk – she isn't – and that Crookshanks' food bowl is filled – it is – before putting the dishes away in the cupboard. A final check in the mirror in the hall for any marmalade on her face, a called-out goodbye to Crooks, and she leaves the flat. The stairs creak underneath her feet when she bounds downstairs, and the morning sun shines through the stained glass in the front door, making a kaleidoscope of colours on the carpet. The warmth of the early summer morning hits Hermione's face as she steps outside. Donning her sunglasses, she goes down the walkway and weaves through the parked cars towards the narrow lane beyond the last house on the row, nestled between houses and shrubbery.

The early morning sun is warm on her bare legs, and she rolls up the sleeves on her blue dress (that she didn't at all choose because she remembers his appreciative smirk the last time he saw her in it). She touches the outside of her pocket, making sure the two shrunken books are still there. They are. It probably would have been smarter – and less painful – to send them by owl rather than to give them back in person, but there's a part of her that needs to see him.

It takes her less than ten minutes to reach the Apparition point at Chiswick Common – it's tucked beneath a cluster of rowan trees on the east side – and when she steps into it the Disillusionment charm washes over her like raw eggs being cracked on her head and trickling down her body. The unpleasant feeling makes her shudder, and she takes a second to clear her mind before bringing up her destination. It doesn't stick properly, and she huffs. She inhales deeply and tries again. Confident she won't end up somewhere else than where she wants to go, she raises her wand and turns on the spot with a soft pop.

Hermione appears underneath a bridge next to a murky canal. It smells quite strongly of urine, and several pieces of furniture and carrier bags bob along in the brown water. It's a rather unpleasant smell, and she wrinkles her nose. Dilapidated buildings with cracked or boarded-up windows line the canal on both sides, and in the distance a brick chimney dominates the skyline. Checking she's alone – which she is – she cancels the Disillusionment charm, sheaths her wand and walks along the canal. Weeds grow in the cracked steps leading up towards the high street, and the rusty railing looks like it may fall over any second.

Either Cokeworth has become even more rundown in the months since she last walked this route, or she's forgotten how bad it is.

Reaching the high street, she pauses to let a car drive past before crossing the street. Cokeworth has a completely different atmosphere than Chiswick; the handful of shops on the small high street that aren't boarded up have a neglected air about them. A black cat sits on the pavement outside the chip shop, watching the few passersby through yellow eyes and flicking its tail.

A broad-shouldered man with grey hair stands outside the corner shop, changing the advertisement of a sandwich board sign. When he spots her, he straightens up with a smile.

“Good morning to you!” He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand. “It's been a while since I've seen you around. How've you been?”

Hermione slows her steps. “Not bad, thank you.”

“Give my regards to your man, won't you?”

_Her man._

Those words shouldn't hurt as much as they do.

She smiles wanly. “I will.”

Hermione passes several streets with identical terraced brick houses, which gets dingier the farther she gets from the high street. Turning onto a smaller street, she pauses. Most of the houses on this street looks abandoned, and the street sign on the corner is half falling off its posts. The aged black letters say 'Spinner's End'.

She takes a deep breath. It's been months since she's seen Severus. Not since that rainy afternoon in March when she looked at him with tears in her eyes and said, “I can't do this anymore.” His face was a blank mask – as she was used to – and he offered no protest to her statement. Like she didn't matter at all. His indifference hurt her the most.

Hermione was on her second and final year as an apprentice under Professor Flitwick when Severus returned to Hogwarts to teach Potions. He spent the year after the war convalescing, holed up in a private room at St Mungo's where the Healers worked around the clock to not only save his life, but make sure he had few lasting means. He returned to Hogwarts just as severe and sour as she remembered him, cravat tied high on his neck to hide the scarring left behind by Nagini. He barely said a word to anyone when he arrived, and certainly not to her. Then one night she found him in the kitchen, bent over a steaming mug of tea. He didn't object to her taking a seat opposite him; his only reaction was a quirked brow. They didn't speak, only sat and sipped their tea. It turned out he was as much of an insomniac as she was – a lovely parting gift from being on the run and always worrying someone would discover them while they slept – and most nights he beat her to the kitchen. By the second week, a mug of tea was set out for her when she arrived. For almost two months they met nightly; always drinking tea but never speaking.

The first time he spoke, she startled so badly she spilt tea all over herself. He quirked a brow and dryly – and hoarsely – remarked that tea usually goes into the mouth, not on one's clothes.

Slowly but surely a friendship grew between them, and by Easter, Hermione was in love with him. She spent the rest of the term trying to talk herself out of it; he'd shown no indication he fancied her, and she would rather have his friendship than nothing at all. On the last night of the term – and her last in the castle – he walked her back to her chambers after her farewell party in the staffroom. Hermione still didn't know what possessed her to stretch up, brace her hands on his chest, and kiss him. She expected him to push her away, say something scathing and leave her heartbroken. Instead he sighed into her mouth and pressed her against the closed door, a knee sliding between her thighs. A mumbled question and the door opened behind her.

She was late meeting Harry and Ginny for lunch the next day.

Hermione reaches the last house on the street both too quickly and too slowly. It looks especially grubby in the cheery summer sun; several bricks have cracks in them, and the dark blue paint on the door has seen better days. Pushing her sunglasses on top of her head, she knocks twice and steps back. The door opens soundlessly, showing the narrow face and tall frame of her former paramour. Something flutters in her chest.

“Hello, Severus.” Her voice is surprisingly stable when she's feeling anything but. “May I come in?”

Wordlessly, he steps aside to allow her to enter. Out on the street, a car backfires.

As Severus closes the door behind her, the roller blind on the front window snaps up.

She flinches, heart racing.

Looking over at Severus, he's slid his wand down from inside his sleeve and into his hand. Realising it's only the roller blind, he slides it back up his sleeve.

The pendulum wall clock strikes nine.

Why does he still have that clock? He's voiced his hatred of it more than once – threatening to blast it to smithereens.

Severus' eyes drift down slightly. “You cut your hair.” His voice washes over her like the first sip of tea in the morning. Still hoarse, but also silky.

Hermione touches the shorter curls, which barely brush her shoulders. It was a spur of the moment decision a couple of weeks ago, and she's still not entirely sure how to feel about it. “I did.”

The ticking of the clock is awfully loud as the silence stretches.

Something's different about the room, but she can't put her finger on what. It looks the same as it did the last time she was there; the same brown sofa and bookshelf-lined walls, the same threadbare rug and table lamp she knocked to the ground once in her haste to get her shirt off. Instantly she's transported to a snowy evening of them cuddling up on the sofa, a fire crackling in the hearth. He probably wouldn't call it cuddling, though. More like very close sitting or some other nonsense. She recalls how the firelight reflected in his eyes as she rode him on the sofa, his hands tangled in her hair and his breath hot on her face.

Hermione fidgets. “You have to say something about the haircut, not just state that I've had one.”

“Why?”

She exhales sharply. “Because if you say nothing I'll assume it looks bad.”

His eyebrow quirks up. “I hardly think it's my place to have an opinion on that anymore.”

She supposes that's both fair and true, though it doesn't make it any less painful.

“Why are you here, Hermione?”

Though not as painful as that.

Hermione clears her throat and reaches into her dress pocket. “I found a few things of yours when I was having a clear out the other day, and figured you might want them back.”

She was shocked when her yearly summer clear out yielded two books belonging to Severus. Partially because it was months since he had been in her flat, and partly because he hadn't spent much time there at all. They spent most of the previous summer in Cokeworth – eating fish and chips down by the river and spending hours in bed – and once term started she more often than not Flooed to Hogwarts.

She brings the books back to their normal size, and as he takes them from her, his fingers brush against hers. Her magic immediately reaches out towards his, at once comforting and seductive. It makes her shiver.

“I was looking for this the other day,” he says, seemingly mostly to himself as he traces a hand over the cover of the book.

“For your research?”

His black eyes meet hers. “Yes. I'm trialling out a new charmed arithmantic formula.”

“Any success so far?”

“Some.” He puts the books on the low table next to the sofa. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

Hermione hesitates. She's not ready to leave. Who knows when she'll see him again? “I met Mr Baker from the corner shop on my way here. He said to give you his regards.”

“Did he, now?”

Hermione doesn't share that he called Severus 'her man'. “How've you been, Severus?”

Crossing his arms, Severus snorts. “Really? Resorting to small talk?”

She rolls her eyes. “It's called being polite, you should try it sometime.”

“We're no longer together. I don't have to be polite.”

Hermione recoils. “Just because people break up doesn't mean you stop caring.”

He looks away. “I thought that was precisely the reason people broke up.”

She's forgotten how easily he gets underneath her skin, how his words nestle their way into every nook and cranny of her insides. Sometimes they give her joy, sometimes pain.

“I never stopped caring, Severus,” Hermione says, voice low, “but we weren't happy. You deserve to be happy. You clearly don't want me here, so I'll go.” Her skin still hums with her magic, desperately reaching out towards his. Does he feel it too? It takes everything in her to push it down. “I wish things would have worked out differently between us.”

His face still reveals nothing, and she wants to shake him and scream in his face. Didn't he care at all? This is it, she supposes. She gave him all she could and more, stretched herself thin in every direction and she is exhausted.

Mustering all the determination she can, she squares her shoulders. “Goodbye, Severus.”

Her fingers wrap around the cold metal of the handle, and the sunlight is too bright on her face as she steps through the front door.

Only to find herself in Severus' sitting room.

The roller blind on the front window snaps up, and she flinches.


	2. Again and again and agan and again

_Only to find herself in Severus' sitting room._

_The roller blind on the front window snaps up, and she flinches._

As he closes the door behind her, the pendulum wall clock strikes nine.

“You cut your hair.”

Hermione blinks. Her mind is hazy. Wasn't she just about to leave? Did she imagine their entire conversation while standing on the pavement? The shrunken books are still in her pocket. Realising she's standing there like a blithering idiot, she clears her throat. “Uh, yeah. A few weeks ago. Did you also just get this sense of deja vu?”

Severus gives her a look usually reserved for dunderhead students – or Trelawney. “No. Is there a reason you've inflicted yourself on my person?”

Her magic hums underneath her skin, reaching out towards him. She pushes it down. None of that, now. “I came to return these.” She takes the shrunken books from her pocket. As he takes them from her, their fingers brush.

He recoils.“And you thought sending an owl was a waste of money?”

“I wanted to see you.” What possessed her to say that? It isn't at all what she planned to say.

Severus crosses his arms over his chest. “The feeling is not mutual. Please leave.”

Hermione hesitates. There's too much left unsaid. “Severus, I-”

His eyes narrow. “Now.”

Fine. If that's what he wants.

Going through the front door, she steps into the sitting room.

The roller blind on the front window snaps up, and she flinches. As he closes the door behind her, the pendulum wall clock strikes nine.

“You cut your hair.”

Hermione blinks. “What?”

Something's wrong. They _just_ had this conversation. She remembers the thrill of him noticing her haircut and the dread that he hates it. He always seemed fascinated with her hair; pulling on a curl for it to straighten only to release it and watch it bounce back, tangling his hands into it when she pleasured him with her mouth, burying his nose in it as they slept.

Severus scoffs. “Did they accidentally cut your ears off too?”

Hermione moves towards him. “Severus, we've already had this conversation.”

“I assure you, we haven't. Why are you here?”

She fishes the books out of her dress pocket. “To return these. Something strange is going on, Severus, I'm sure of it.”

The books levitate out of her hand and into his. “You just don't give up, do you?” His tone is hard. “Busybody Hermione Granger, never satisfied until there's a mystery to solve or a cause to stick her nose into.”

She recoils, hurt seeping through her flesh and settling like something unpleasant in her stomach. Is that really what he thinks of her? She thought he was different. Spinning on her heel she storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Only to end up back in the sitting room.

The roller blind on the front window snaps up, and she flinches. As he closes the door behind her, the pendulum wall clock strikes nine.

“You cut your hair.”

Hermione throws her hands in the air. “Oh, for fuck's sake! Severus, do you not remember saying that to me at least two times already?”

“I've done no such thing.”

It takes all her restraint not to hex him. “But you just did! Then you called me a busybody.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “I think I would remember that.”

“Insufferable man! That's what I'm trying to tell you: you don't remember!” Hermione lifts her eyes to the ceiling.“I swear to God, if I'm stuck in some sort of Groundhog Day scenario where you state that I've cut my hair for the rest of eternity, I will hurt someone,” she mutters to herself.

“Hermione, you're not making any sense.”

“You're the one not making any sense!”

He raises his eyebrows. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Hermione chuckles dryly and shrugs. “Honestly? I might be. Lucky for me, you won't remember any of this. See you in about ten seconds.”

“Hermione...”

Once she's through the door and back in the sitting room, she sighs. Is this the fourth time? She's already lost count. The clock strikes nine, and she whips out her wand and aims it at the offending object. It explodes into tiny pieces, and Hermione feels a bit better. Then she stalks back out the door.

The roller blind on the front window snaps up.

The pendulum wall clock – somehow miraculously mended – strikes nine.

“You cut your hair.”

Hermione bursts into tears. Swiping her hand over her eyes, she looks at Severus. His brow is furrowed, mouth slightly open. This is mortifying.

“I sincerely hope this isn't the one you'll remember.”

The slam of the door isn't as satisfying as she would like, and she barely registers the rolled blind snapping up. The clock strikes nine and she resists the urge to blast it off the wall again. It didn't work the last time; she's still here. She wipes at her eyes. That's her makeup gone.

She meets his eyes, notices the furrowed brow. “You cut your hair.”

Hermione has had enough of this. “Yes, Severus,” she says with a sigh, “I've cut my hair.”

There's a beat of silence – other than the ticking of that blasted clock – then Severus speaks. “Have we done this before?”

It's all too much, and she bursts out laughing. Once she's calmed down, she leans against the closed front door. “I'm glad you could finally join me.”

“Finally?”

She sighs. “I think this was the fifth – or sixth, I'm not sure – time you've told me I've cut my hair. Every time I walk out the front door, I'm brought back inside and it's 9 o'clock again.”

His face darkens. “What did you do?”

Hermione sees red. How dare he? “I didn't do anything! I only came here to return your bloody books.” She takes them from her dress pocket – for the umpteenth time – and throws them at him. He catches them easily and shoves them into his trouser pocket. “If you think I want to stay here another minute longer than I have to...”

“Did you try to leave by any other means?” he interrupts.

She lets out a frustrated huff. “You've got anti-Apparition wards, remember?”

Severus raises his eyebrows. “Yes,” he says slowly, “and I've also got a functioning Floo.”

Oh.

Stepping out of the way, he makes a sweeping motion with his arm. “Be my guest.” He looks completely unbothered by whatever it is that's going on, his face reading that he wants her gone.

Hermione stalks over to the Floo – pushing down her magic as it reaches out to him. Tossing the Floo powder into the flames, she steps in. Her eyes meet his from across the room, and her magic rises up inside her, reaching for his. Her voice is shaking as she calls out her address.

Nothing happens.

Disappointed, she steps back into the sitting room, brushing soot and Floo powder from her dress. While unsurprising, that is still a letdown. At least it didn't reset the time; the clock shows four minutes past nine.

“What do we do now?”

Her words hang in the air. Severus says nothing. What is going through his head?

Then he goes to the front door, throws it open and steps outside.

“Wait!”

White noise and a sharp pain fills Hermione's skull, and she clutches her head in her hands. When the world stops spinning, she blinks her eyes open. She's standing by the front door, Severus facing her a few steps away.

The roller blind on the front window snaps up.

The pendulum wall clock strikes nine.

“That was bloody stupid! You had no idea what was going to happen.”

“And now we do,” Severus says, almost too calmly. “We both seem to be trapped in some sort of time loop, restricting us to this house.”

“I had figured that out on my own, thank you,” Hermione says, rubbing her temples. “But why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Severus scrubs a hand over his face. “I'm still not convinced you didn't cause this. Just stay out of my way until I fix this mess.” He stalks – he's very good at that – over to a wooden door next to the stairs – his potions lab – and disappears into the room beyond.

“That's a fantastic plan,” Hermione mutters.

Her head is still pounding from whatever happened when Severus tried to leave, and she sighs. It would seem she won't be getting out of here anytime soon. Removing her trainers and shoving them against the wall, she goes through the sitting room and into the kitchen.

The air of neglect hangs heavily in the room, from the faded yellow worktops on the back wall to the two mismatched chairs at the table to the left of the doorway. They spent a lot of time at the kitchen table, eating or talking. The door to the bathroom – converted from an outside privy several years ago – is ajar. The lino is slightly sticky under her sock-clad feet as she walks over to the sink, and the pipes groan when she turns on the tap to fill the kettle. Flipping the switch on the socket, she reaches into the upper cabinet for a mug. An almost empty box of Lady Grey sits on the counter, and she pauses. Severus doesn't drink Lady Grey. She does. Has he kept that from when she was last here?

Tea made, she sinks down in 'her' chair and leans back against the wall. This isn't optimal. It's hard enough being around him, but to be stuck inside this house? She sips her tea. This house has too many memories – both good and bad.

Hermione's not sure who was more surprised at their relationship; her friends or Severus. She didn't have much experience in that field – her thing with Ron had been over practically before it began – and she enjoyed learning together with Severus. She thinks of Ron with sadness. Of all her friends, he was the only one unable to accept her relationship with Severus, and he hasn't spoken to her since. The few times they met at the Burrow for birthdays or Easter, he pretended she didn't exist.

She takes another sip of tea.

If she expected Severus to be different towards her once they were dating, she was seriously mistaken, and perhaps it was naïve of her to think so. He held himself rigidly when she ran a hand over his shoulder or snuggled against him on the sofa, as though he was unaccustomed to being touched. He probably was. It was a different story when they were intimate. There, he touched her greedily. His fingers or mouth were always connected to her skin, and she'd sometimes wake in the middle of the night by his magic reaching for her. She would place sleepy kisses to his back or shoulders until he woke up, and he'd cling to her as they became lost in each other for hours. Thinking of it made her core tingle.

As their relationship progressed, Hermione started to feel more and more as though she was the only one in it. He was always so closed off, and attempting conversation about her feelings made him shut down. His apathy was draining. When they started dating, she wondered – in the back of her mind, where doubt and anxiety lived – if he was capable of letting anyone in, even her. If his years of being abused, belittled and constantly on his guard had proved too much. So she tried everything, for probably longer than she should have, until she couldn't anymore. Until all that was left was regret and bitterness where there once was joy and love.

Something wet hits her hand. Blinking, Hermione realises she's crying. Oh, for Circe's sake. He still keeps the kitchen roll on the table, and she tears off a piece and dabs at her eyes. Bringing her mug to her mouth, she grimaces. Her tea has gone cold. If that's not the perfect end to this morning, she doesn't know what is.


	3. Understanding what is and what was

It's late afternoon when Severus finally emerges from his lab.

“What the devil are you doing?” his voice comes from the open doorway to the sitting room.

“Making an early dinner,” Hermione answers, flipping over a sausage in the pan. “I don't know about you, but I'm starving and since we can't exactly run out to the chip shop...”

The chair scrapes against the floor when he sits. “So you're making bangers and instant mash?”

“I am,” Hermione replies, pouring boiling water over the instant mash potato mix.

“You don't like bangers and instant mash.”

“I know, but you're behind on food shopping and I'd prefer not to starve.” She stirs it vigorously, resenting the beige lump forming in the bowl. Her chest tightens, and she tries to slow her rapid breathing. It will be fine. Everything will be fine.

Severus sighs, then stands. She hears a drawer open, then the clink of cutlery. It's disturbingly familiar, standing by the hob while Severus lays the table. It was often their routine, in the before; she cooked, he laid the table and they shared washing up duty.

Once it's finished, Hermione turns off the hob and brings the food to the table. More familiarity strikes her, sitting down at the rickety kitchen table. It's not a large table by any means, and as she shifts her foot bumps against his shin.

She sips her water. “I suppose you've spent the past few hours researching whatever happened to us and have figured out how to stop it?”

“No.” He reaches for the peas and continues talking as he spoons them onto this plate. “I didn't find anything in my books about time loops. It's not a much-studied field.”

Her heart sinks. “All hope is lost, then?”

Severus scoffs. “Certainly not. I haven't checked all of my books yet. I remember there's something about time travel in one of the books in the sitting room; I just have to find which one.”

Hermione raises her eyebrows. “You mean you don't recall the book nor the page number? Shocking.”

In the before, he would meet her teasing with a smirk and said something so dripping with innuendo her knees would turn weak. Now, he merely regards her for a moment before he continues eating.

“How is your research going? You mentioned trying out a new charmed arithmantic formula?”

He wipes at his mouth with a piece of kitchen roll. “I did. Hopefully, adding the charms will make the potion more stable; I still end up with potion soup nine times out of ten and I'm not sure why.”

Finishing up the last of the instant mash – and rinsing it down with plenty of water – Hermione lowers her fork. “Do you want me to take a look at it? Granted, my expertise doesn't lie in potions, but I do know a thing or two about charms.”

His eyebrow quirks up. “I recall. Remind me, how many times at your leaving party did Filius say you were the best apprentice he'd ever had?”

Hermione rolls her eyes but smiles at the memory. “He was completely pissedfor the final three, so they don't count.”

“He was still raving about your final project when we left for your chambers.”

The chuckle dies in her throat. When they left for her chambers. When he kissed her back. When she invited him inside. When he removed her robes and touched her so earnestly, like she was something to be cherished. She was excited and nervous – and a bit drunk – and so turned on by hearing him, seeing him, feeling him. By the knowledge that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

The memory burns her. “Could we not talk about that, please?”

His eye twitches. “Gladly.”

She sighs. Why does he have to be so difficult? “I realise neither one of us are enjoying this situation, but can we at least try to be civil? It'll make things a lot easier. Once we solve this and I've left, you can go back to hating me and I won't bother you again.”

“Oh, happy day.”

Ouch.Angry, but with nowhere to go – and she doubts he'll appreciate it if she started breaking things – she grabs their empty plates and puts them in the sink. She washes them aggressively – the Muggle way to keep her hands occupied – eyes burning and hands shaking. She suspected he doesn't trust her anymore, but he basically just admitted to hating her. She needs to be angry. If she's not, she'll cry.

Plates rinsed, she puts them in the rusty dish rack and gets started on the cutlery.

The chair creaks when he stands.

Her magic reaches for him, desperate for the comfort and familiarity he could give.

“I apologise.”

Lifting her gaze to the window, Hermione pauses. The edge of the fork she's cleaning digs into her palm. A first-floor window opens on the house across the alleyway, and a rug is hung out on the window sill. It sways slightly in the wind.

“It's fine,” she snipes.

He sighs heavily, then leaves. The stairs creaks, and she hears him stomp around upstairs. What's he doing?

Once the dishes are done, Hermione dries off her hands and goes into the sitting room. She glances at the clock. Almost six. She blankly ignores Severus' footsteps on the stairs, then his dark form appears in the corner of her eye.

“I made up the spare room for you. You may spend the evening as you wish.” He walks past her and disappears into the potions lab.

His persistence at avoiding her cuts through her chest like a knife. Is he going to continue to do that until they've solved this? The knife in her chest twists a bit more. She needs something else to think about. She supposes she can read until bedtime, since Severus doesn't own a TV. Not that she watches a lot of TV anyway, other when Ginny comes over to watch _Spaced._ The four bottom shelves of the corner bookcase are dedicated to Muggle novels, and she crouches down to find something to occupy her mind for the next few hours.

She briefly pauses at the Wodehouse section, but shakes her head and keeps going. She's not in the mood for Wodehouse. Then she pulls out a thick paperback with a red cover. _The Collected Dorothy Parker._ She bought him that book for his birthday; it's one of her favourites, and she thought he'd find the often snarky tone amusing. By the look of the worn-out spine, it seemed he has.

She makes herself comfortable in the left corner of the sofa – _her_ corner – and opens the book. How many hours has she spent reading on that sofa with a cup of tea and Severus' fingers absent-mindedly running over her ankle? After a while, she would abandon her position in favour of snuggling up against him. He is really too bony to make a comfortable pillow, but she never minded at all. She just wanted to be close to him.

Several hours later, she closes the book and yawns. The sun is almost fully set, leaving the sitting room in near darkness. She transfigures a bookmark from a loose thread on the sofa cushion to mark her place, then puts the book down and sits up. Her spine cracks as she stretches, and she winces. She has half a mind to sleep on the sofa out of spite, but she knows first-hand it's not the most comfortable. The 'spare room' as he called it is, in fact, his childhood bedroom, and the room he slept in when she first started coming over. The narrow bed barely allowed them to lie on their backs side by side, and it didn't take long before he made the shift into using the master bedroom at the front of the house. The larger bed was wasted on them, though; they still slept pressed up against each other.

Hermione runs her tongue over her teeth and grimaces. It seems unlikely he's got a spare toothbrush lying around, but she detests teeth-cleaning spells. They always leave a strange aftertaste. She checks the mirror cabinet in the small bathroom. A lone toothbrush and a half-empty tube of toothpaste lay on the bottom shelf next to a deodorant and a can of shaving cream. Her magic pulses through her fingertips on the cabinet door, and she frowns. Something's been magically hidden in the cabinet, she can feel it.

“Finite Incantatem.”

Several bottles and jars materialise before her eyes, and Hermione blinks. Those are her things. Her toothbrush, her face wash. The shampoo and conditioner Severus brewed when she complained for the umpteenth time how hard it was to find suitable ones for curly hair. He kept them all. It was when those first appeared in the bathroom – and Severus shrugged as though it wasn't a big deal – that she realised she loved him.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Hermione reaches for her toothbrush and gets ready for bed. The duality of Severus unnerves her. She hasn't seen him all evening; he seems adamantly against spending any time with her. She treads heavily up the stairs on purpose, so he'll know she's going to bed. Maybe he'll dare come out of hiding then.

She stops inside the door to the spare room. Even cloaked in darkness, she can tell it hasn't changed. Not that there was much in it in the first place. Long and narrow, the bed is under the only window, with a desk acting as a bedside table. She recalls Severus' head between her thighs as she buried one hand in his hair and gripped the desk with the other. A skinny dark-stained wardrobe stands to the right of the door, which Hermione closes silently behind her. In the wardrobe, she finds spare bed linen, and she transfigures a pillowcase into a nightshirt.

She drapes her dress and bra over the desk chair and slips on the transfigured garment. It reminds her of the nightshirt Severus used to wear when they first started dating, and which she would remove every night until he stopped bothering with it. The sheets are cool, and she fluffs the pillow before settling down. Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply. The sheets smell like him; like rosemary and sage, with a hint of smokiness and something sharp. It brings back more memories, and she can practically taste his skin on her lips, feel his scarred skin underneath her fingertips and how he felt on top of her, inside her. She rolls onto her back, trying to quench the sudden clenching in her core.

Outside, a fox screams.

She lets out a frustrated huff. It's probably for the best. It's _not_ a good idea to start having intimate thoughts about your ex paramour while trapped in their house and sleeping in their old bed.

There are footsteps on the stairs. The steps near the top always creak something fierce, making sneaking impossible. The footsteps stop outside her door. She hardly dares breathe. Then he crosses the landing, and a door opens and closes. The walls in the house are paper-thin, and every rustle and sound as he removes his clothes and gets into bed is loud in the stillness of the night.

Why hasn't he put up a silencing charm?

Why hasn't she?

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on [Tumblr!](https://morbidmuch.tumblr.com/) I'm friendly and sometimes funny.


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